Ch. 3: The Pain of Arheled
Back to Arheled July gave up on raining—finally, after a damp fungus wiped out half the pea patch—and stayed hot. Even after the 4th the heat continued. Mrs. Deer, pausing in her weeding to mop her wrinkled face for the hundredth time, commented on this in her odd chirpy voice, and Ronnie Wendy, in need of money with rent to pay, nodded in a polite but preoccupied way and went on pulling baby raspberries out of the half-dead skeletal pea vines. A few anemic pea pods hung despondently from the poles. “You picking blackberries this year, honey?” said Mrs. Pine from the tomato patch. They were flourishing under the heat, but then they’d been started indoors way back in Jan. “Season just started.” said Ronnie. “I’m curious, Mrs. Pine: how come you didn’t just banish the plague?” “Do you seriously think we’re going to die of hunger if we don’t get in enough peas?” she retorted. “Besides,” chirped Mrs. Deer, “we dare not interfere with the course of the Earth’s rhythems, lest we spark off—well—weird consequences. And even though the Father of Dragons knows who we are, he is sealed, and he often keeps secrets from his master, whom he hates. How is little Brooke doing, by the way?” “Fine.” said Ronnie shortly. The deep doleful voice of Mrs. Pine came from the potato beds. “Then she is not fine.” “I don’t think I should be discussing it with—others.” Ronnie said. There was silence for a while as all of them worked on, absorbed in their tasks. It was broken by Mrs. Hill, who said to Ronnie, “Why didn’t you use the Key?” “It—didn’t seem wise.” Ronnie said, sounding like Forest. “They felt…” “Well, wouldn’t you be short-tempered if you’d been between time layers for who knows how many millennia?” Mrs. Pine retorted. “I am not answerable to you.” said Ronnie. “I answer to Arheled alone.” “His reasons are his own.” murmered Mrs. Deer, a slight smile on her papery face. “But does he even know what they are?” Ronnie did not say anything, but continued pulling weeds. He was glad when 2:00 came and he could leave—pulling weeds in boiling sun was something he couldn’t bear any later than that, even with his straw hat. Mrs. Hill paid him, and as he thanked her and turned to his bike, she said mournfully, “You could have your old apartment back, you know. It’s still empty.” “I’ll think about it if I can’t afford my rent.” he promised. “But Burrville is much more—centrally located. Torrington and Winsted are both up a flat road.” He stopped at several patches he remembered from last summer, already a memory both near and yet distant as a strange country. Had he really lived in a house of stone where all his cooking was done on a fire? It seemed so strange, and so natural. Arriving in Winsted he headed over to the park and the cemetery on its’ hill, leaving his bike in the bushes on the far side. Ancient paths climbed up onto the railroad grade, but the forest honeysuckle bushes had overrun most of them. Following these onto the crest of the narrow ridge, Ronnie skirted several piles of concrete rubble and navigated a curving path through dangling ropes of bittersweet, emerging onto an open roadway. In the long-ago past the Tiffany and Pickett Company—main product, pallets and crates, according to the old white letters on the red brick of their front wall—had made a road up onto the abandoned railroad, either for dumping purposes or for a reason now lost. The roadway swung up from the left and followed the rail bed under the cemetery hill, a wooded slope rising on the right to the graves near the top, until terminating suddenly near the place where the grade met the Still River Turnpike at the Gates of Winsted. It was sunny still in a few places, where the trees had not yet drawn down overhead, and wild strawberry carpeted the ground. Blackberries grew on the edges now and again, and uncapping his mayonnaise jar Ronnie began to pick. Sometimes he wore his straw hat, and sometimes he swatted mosquitos with it. They seemed to be haunting the place like evil demons in bug form. The smell of crushed blackberry and hot sun and leaves, as well as sweat mingled with tick repellant (it never repelled mosquitos), was to Ronnie the essence of middle summer. He’d picked berries since he was little, often with the same fanatical determination he was doing it with now. There was a fascination in hoarding berry after berry, winning it from thorns and bugs; bushes drew you on, one bush to another, until the entire world consisted of green leaves steaming in hot sun, the red raspberries and dark purple-black blackberries and the rare golden-orange yellow raspberries gleaming like stars. He finished the “upper head” of the rail grade and headed back to where the roadway first climbed up. There it bent back on itself in a U as it went down, paralleling the grade but some 15 feet below it. Here the original brick buildings of the Pickett Co. had once stood, until they burned long ago and were razed. Last year they had been a steaming area of great heaps of rubble, brick rubble and mashed wood rubble and scrap iron, some spread out in great bays along the grassy track and some in small hills. There had been blackberries all over the ruins, for the razing had evidently been some time ago. Closer to the road there were some still-standing brick skeletons with fossil trucks a century old rusting in peace, and old truck-trailers falling quietly apart, and then the back doors and loading docks of the main building. They held that peculiar quaint shamble-shamble air that comes to factories that have endured for many generations. The long brick building had recently been fixed up, the young trees growing around the windows removed, and the fixers had apparently moved to the back. The rubble was now buried with clayey fill, the scrap metal hauled away, and the sunny grass of the roadway bulldozed. And with it went half the blackberries. Ronnie shrugged and heaved a sigh, went back to his bike and then headed up to the library to check his email. Brooke hadn’t answered his letter. BZPower, the Bionicle Lego website, informed him that one of the ongoing serials of the fascinating storyline had finally been completed, and he lost touch with the outer world for a while. Lara Midwinter was dreaming. At least, she suspected that she was. Ancient shapes of worn wood that yet was somehow as vague as dark mist, arched over her and groped around her, like some twilight forest sunk beneath the seas. Did dreaming people know they were dreaming? She looked at her companion, intending to ask him, but no sound came out. He did not seem surprised. How long he had been there, pacing steadily at her side, she did not know. He was cloaked and robed in black, but had no hood, so that his shadowy hair and hard grim face were plain to see. “You see it, then, don’t you, little Star?” he said. Her voice made some sound, although she still couldn’t speak. “Fleme in your throat?” he said, a queer light in his ancient eyes. Meeting them was like looking into a frozen pond: a pond of acid. “How interesting that we conceive of dragons as the oldest force in the world.” he said. “In the East they are gods, or at any rate benevolent. And the West equates them with the Devil. I wonder what they would think, those emptied mystics and gaunt saints, if they could look back into the foundations of the world and see who it really was that sang in the darkness. They would find no Dragons there. Not even their Father had yet conceived that form.” They paced slowly on through the chill night-blue mist, the tormented shapes of the ancient trees wild and despairing overhead, as if frozen in the act of uttering one last, futile scream. “And if they looked further, to find the World Serpent or to uncover Ouroboros, they would see only Nothing.” '' Nothing at all? '' Lara tried to say. “Nothing lies outside the Circles of the World, and into Nothing shall it return. For we sang it out of Nothing in the beginning of Time.” '' We? '' Her companion gave a grim laugh. “Yes, haven’t you heard them chirping that silly hymn at Mass? “I sang in the morning till the Valar kicked me out, '' ''They said I couldn’t sing, that I only could shout '' ''But I sang even louder, till they had to sing along '' ''For I am the Lord of the Song, said he. '' '' '' ''Come, the Nine, the Seven and the Three '' ''I am the Lord of the Rings, said he '' ''I’ll unmake you all, wherever you may be '' ''For I am the Lord of the Rings, said he.” '' His voice was rough, grinding and not at all harmonious, but Lara knew the tune, nonetheless: it was one she heard about ten times a year whenever she went to the folk Masses. '' Who are you? '' “I see you have figured out how to speak.” mocked the dark man. “Who am I? Many before you have wanted to know, and many before you have gone mad at the first syllables of my unutterable name. I am the source of all power. I am the One who arises in Might. But these riddles mean nothing to you, I see.” “I know who you are.” Lara managed to force her voice to croak. The dark man gave a sardonic smile. “Do you? If you had the faintest idea to whom you were speaking, Starmaid, you would be rolling upon the ground, convulsed with horror, and the only coherent sounds from your mouth would be your screams for mercy.” “I don’t recall Hurin having that reaction.” The dark one bent upon her a look that was darker yet. “I thought you disliked those stories,” he sneered. “I thought your mother in her great wisdom isolated you from Tolkien. Do you know what I did to him afterwards? Do you know how long I hunted and haunted him, till he had betrayed everyone that wished him well? Oh, I see Ronnie never bothered to go into that when he told you the story.” He stood in front of her, spreading his cloak. “You shall see for yourself how powerful I am!” Light filled the heavens. Dark night though it was, the stars gleamed so close and large around her that the sky was spangled day. If indeed they were stars, for their forms changed like lightning, and queer coruscations and whorls of light and energy and power burst and flamed, Star against Star, and weird bladed weapons appeared and vanished. The sky was at war. Far below Lara saw only a great plain of water like a silver floor—an ocean?—cratered with the splash of stray blades and rays of power. Her mind reeled, overcome by the magnitude of the battle that was happening as the Stars went to war. Light burst, whirling and flaming in countless forms and bulging rays; it was beyond description or comprehension. One figure in the midst of the turmoil remained still and dark, unshining, a dreadful mirth in his eyes as he watched the heavens destroy themselves. Striding through the warring Stars there came a figure more brilliant than they; and he was not silver, nor white, but a blazing blue. Like a comet he clove his way through the whirling disorder, power-bursts disrupted and splintered by his passage as if by a thunderbolt. Inexorably he bore down on the dark figure, until he stood before him, and saw him. “Why, old Arheled,” said the Dark Planet, “I wondered how long it would take you to tumble to me.” “Angar!” roared Arheled. “It is you who are stirring them up! You it is who engineered this war. Defend yourself, son of the Moon, for your life ends tonight!” Then Angar laughed. Hard, grinding, horrible was the sound. “And you are the one to take it?” he sneered. “Learn, then, Arheled, just whom it is you face!” A huge and horrid smile blossomed on his face. His eyes were so bright the light of them hurt Lara’s mind. Like a black-silver wind his power rushed against Arheled. Up from Arheled boiled the full majesty of his noble being, and behind him was the might of the Road within him; and layer after layer of blue flame shredded before the dark wind, as the tremendous power of Arheled was ground down and crushed by the strength of his enemy. Angar’s smile widened. Aheled’s glow sputtered and flickered. With one last effort he threw back his head and shouted, “Who are you?” The last thing Lara heard as she struggled into wakefulness was a single word from the dark figure: '' “Chaos.” '' The blue house in Burrville stood in it’s tree-shaded yard, looking over a rail fence at the paved bike path. The air was hot and soft and very sleepy. An occasional rattle and shout from the paving company’s buildings broke the hum of insects and the soft warm quiet, and then faded. Ronnie’s old truck, dotted with cherry leaves, sat in the driveway like an ancient junked car waiting to be scrapped. It was very peaceful here. A dark-green SUV with flame-and-skull decals pulled with a scattering of gravel into the paving company’s lot. A tall stately blonde got out, her eyes blank and impersonal behind sunglasses, her tiny shorts and bikini top displaying a stunning body, long and golden. The driver of the asphalt truck that was refueling gave a long whistle, and the abrupt gruff man lecturing him actually forgot what he was saying. She had green gleaming sequins on her top, and a handbag of tortoiseshell pattern swung from one bare shoulder. “Would either of you hot beefcakes be the landlord of that little house?” she said. Her voice was smooth and rich. The gruff middle-aged man oozed that he was the one in question. She gave him a dazzling and totally artificial smile and said, “Good, then we have something to discuss. Is there somewhere more…private, perhaps?” He eagerly headed off towards his office, and with a little kiss of her fingertips to the woozy truck driver she followed. In the office—a cluttered little oven stuffed with papers and smelling rather of tar and grease—he sat down in an ancient swivel chair and gestured her to another. A small fan, whirring like an oversized fly, made a valiant attempt to cool the air. Yet despite the hot day, not a bead of sweat marred her smooth skin. She draped her marvellous legs over the chair’s arm, looked up at him and smiled. “What am I to call you, hon?” she drawled intimately. “Oh, I’m Roger. I’m the acting manager here. And you are…?” “Well, I’m sure you could call me ‘hot babe’ or ‘sexiee’ but I usually prefer to be called Mrs. Lane.” His face dropped like a rock. “Married?” She waved one hand—ringless, he observed—negligently. “Once. It’s long behind me. And how about you?” She observed his hand suddenly burying itself among papers, amused. “I—um—well—you might say—“ he stammered. “But, uh, you were saying something about the blue house?” “Yes, hon, if we must get down to business so soon, I was—interested—in renting it.” she drawled. “So much more convenient than where I live. Is it available?” “Um—it’s actually leased for a year, which doesn’t expire till November. One of those college professors.” “And is he living there now?” “Um—no, actually he moved out in May and a friend of his, a young fellow by the name of Ronnie Wendy, is staying out the remainder of the lease.” “Well, then, I really don’t see what the problem is.” Mrs. Lane said. “He’s obviously not the one who paid the lease. That lease was made out by Professor Light. If you refund him his money, Ronnie will be nothing but a squatter.” “Well…um…there’s complications.” “Oh, you mean the rent?” He started. “Hon, trust me, I know all about you.” Her voice grew low and syrupy. “Do we have a deal?” “Well, Mrs. Lane, uh…it’s rather…” “Please. Call me Camilla.” “Camilla, yes, nice name, but…” She leaned back against the arm of her chair. Her glasses gave no hint of what was in her eyes, but her face was suddenly like carved marble. “So, I see things are going to be a little difficult.” she observed coolly. “Such a pity. And we were getting along so well. But it seems I have no other choice.” She lifted up her sunglasses and showed him her naked eyes. Lara Midwinter headed up to the counter with her usual impatient manner. Brandan was at the cash register and looked a little surprised to see her: she’d been scheduled off for three days straight. “Hey, Lara!” he greeted her. “Surprised to see you.” “You know today’s payday.” she said. “And since I’m not in all weekend—because I worked the 4th—I came in to get my paycheck.” Totally missing the sarcasm, he nodded sagely and said that made sense, and as there was no line he tried to make small talk. Finally she said, despairing of him getting the hint, “Brandan, go get the manager so I can get paid.” “Oh, right, sorry.” he said, flustered, and hurried in back. Heather, who was no longer on speaking terms with him after some fight or other, caught Lara’s gaze and rolled her eyes. Lara smiled. “He’s not that bad.” she said to Heather, feeling guilty. “No, just a total blockhead and moron and—“ Further recitation of her catalogue of the attributes of Brandan was cut off by Shawn arriving so fast he skidded around the corner. He looked, with his brown skin and faint Hispanic cast of face, a little like Obama in his pale blue manager’s shirt and tie. She signed for her paycheck, and deciding Brandan needed some kindness she gave him a nice smile as she left. She almost collided with Ronnie Wendy. It had been cool and rainy all day—unlike yesterday’s heat—and he wore a long shiny-blue insane coat that presumably was waterproof. “Ronnie!” she exclaimed. “Hey, Lara!” he smiled. “Don’t tell me, you actually cracked and forgot your parsimonious ways and are going to buy a cheeseburger.” “Nah, if I want some tasty fast food all I have to do is dig in the park trash cans.” Ronnie said loftily. “Oh please. My Uncle Peter is bad enough.” “Don’t worry, I only do that when I’m hungry.” “Well, goodness, make sure you eat before you leave the house!” “Have you ever tried eating when you first get up at 5 in the morning?” Ronnie retorted. “You rather assume you won’t be hungry till you get back. Of course, biking up to Winsted tends to change your mind.” “You’re hopeless. How’s Brooke doing? I haven’t heard from her since she woke up.” Ronnie sobered. “Neither have I.” he said. “She won’t answer her phone, and when I called the house her dad said she wasn’t up to conversation. But he insisted she was all right. I’m worried.” Lara frowned. “Ronnie…I think she may have…gone through things, on that island. If that’s the case, then for a man to try to contact her…might be a bad idea.” Ronnie looked grave. He nodded. “Well, you’re the woman; you would presumably know better than I would about such things. Maybe we should hint to Bell to get in touch with her—they were pretty close.” '' '' '' '' '' '' ''Empty days, each one the same '' ''Meaningless, encased in pain '' ''Waiting, waiting, endless sighs '' ''Staring at the barren sky…. '' Brooke Pond shook her head, the words still echoing in her ears. Never mind that other ears had heard it and other times had sung it; they might well have sprung, wild, laden with lamenting, fresh from her own heart. She hadn’t eaten in days. Food made her sick. Anything made her sick. Once she’d forced herself to eat a brownie Dad made just for her—dear old fuddlehead, she really wished she’d been a little less rude—and that was yesterday. Did a person die of starvation in three days? Or was it four. She gazed moodily down from the edge of the bluff. An old piece of rope strung between two trees near some tattered ruins of tent and old ashes in a stonepile, announced a former campsite. The air was dark with pregnant rain and sad grey clouds poured by overhead. The spillway gorge of Mad River Dam was wild and green, and utterly desolate. '' '' ''Empty days will never end '' ''Vacant nights leave me unchanged '' ''Lost to light, adrift, deranged '' ''Waiting, waiting, while the sky '' ''Sheds its’ stars as though it cries… '' Hard to think it was only four days since she returned, and two weeks since…she flinched. A shudder of nausea went through her; but she didn’t throw up. There was nothing in there but water. Once when she was small she had had a frog in her bed, her brother’s one and only attempt at a practical joke. The horror of a squirming slimy ''something under her when she lay down, had pretty much driven her into a screaming fit. Hysterics, they called it once. Freaking out, they called it now. She hadn’t been able to sleep in a bed for weeks. Her brother was so shocked by her reaction he never did that again. Thinking about her captivity was like that. It made her nauseous. She would feel that again, that loathsome touch, and lie rigid as a board, hoping she wouldn’t scream or throw up. It felt like the frog. She gazed dully out at the dismal land. Dad had insisted she go for a walk, get some fresh air. She had obeyed, listlessly: who cared what she did, anyway? He had dropped her off and made her promise to call when she wanted a ride back. Cool damp wind sighed past her, feeling like dragon scales. Her eyes withdrew from the dreary valley, resting instead on the old rope. Good rope, too. Never let a rope go to waste, Dad would say. She found herself walking over to it. There were no knots, just a couple loops tossed around the tree. She unwound it, her eyes dull, her mind throbbing slowly. Vacant nights will never end '' ''Absent sun and tearlike stars '' ''Torn away from where they are '' ''Waiting, waiting while light dies '' ''I watch the light gone from the sky '' ''Starlight fades within my eyes '' She tied the noose. It must be strong. The slipknot. Yes, it would tighten. Good rope, greenish a bit with moss but tough enough not to break. There was a tree right there, growing out over the edge. She reached up and fastened it. Tight, it had to hold a lot of weight. She stepped forwards…. '' '' '' Hollow dawn and lying morn '' ''Fake, its’ light, so faded, worn '' ''Waiting, waiting for the lie '' ''False lips to say what hides… '' There was a strong hand clamped upon hers. At the touch she flinched, tried to pull away, to take the step into peace…. '' “No.” '' said Arheled. She found herself seated on the cliff height as before, the rope lying in her hands, snapped like thread. She looked up. Arheled was between her and the brink, leaning on the tree she had been about to use. “What business is it of yours?” she said sullenly. “Your life and your death are most certainly my business.” he answered. “You’re pretty quick to stop me ''now. Where were you—then?” “The same place that God is, when thousands of women across the groaning world suffer the torments of violation.” he said. “Bringing out of it a greater good.” “Easy for you to say that.” Brooke said scornfully. “But it is true, nonetheless.” “What do you know?” Brooke muttered, staring dully at the ground. “You don’t know a thing about what I’m going through. You’re not a being of lust. You probably don’t have a body. You’ve never known pain.” “But I do know.” he replied. She turned a furious face upon him. “How? You’re Arheled! You’re some kind of god! You’ve never been raped!” “Yet I also have suffered, Brooke.” Arheled said to her. “Riiight.” “You see, Brooke,” Arheled said slowly, as if the words were difficult, “one does not need flesh in order to suffer pain. Nor is a body needful to know violation. It was long ago. Thousands of years…and yet it rises as fresh as yesterday.” His face suddenly grew drawn, ancient as rock, graven and furrowed by some unimaginable torment that had turned his face to stone. “When the heavens were convulsed with war, and the Sun and moon battled their own children, and the Nine Planets led legions of stars against each other, I came. And I walked against Angar in the strength of the Road, for out of him, I saw, came the madness that was driving on the Stars, and I thought to cast him down and stop the war, before Middle-earth perished beneath us. But he was no longer Angar.” Brooke listened, hardly able to breathe, captivated by the pain in his face, which in so incredible a being seemed monstrous beyond belief. Arheled no longer saw her. His form flickered and wavered, his eyes flaming, haunted by what that day had done to him. “A power was in him more ancient and terrible than the Road itself, and it saw me, and it grappled with me. And I was not strong enough. The Road was not strong enough.” His eyes rested on hers, so old and so filled with anguish that Brooke forgot her own despair for pity. “Then he violated me. Then his mind raped mine. Then I learned about pain, Brooke, and knew what suffering meant. Nine thousand years I have tried to forget; but you have challenged me, and I must answer. Are you content?” “Arheled,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry…I’m just…I can’t…” “With God, one always can.” said Arheled. “Can’t you, like, heal me or something? So I can go on living? I can’t even swim now. I can’t even bathe. Water feels horrible. Water feels like…his tub.” “Call.” said Arheled. “Wh…what? Call? What do you…?” “You know the names. You affine with water. If you seek healing, it lies in that.” Brooke cast down her eyes. They grew blank. They looked inwards. Her face seemed to shine, as if something stirred far within. From down under the surface of her memory ancient words stirred, strange words in a mighty tongue floated to the surface, took form on her lips, and she uttered them. '' “Daslenga….” she said. '' “Daslenga Dílendo!” '' The rock shook under her feet. Far below to her left, where the canyon plunged down to end in the Valley of Voices, there rose up against the damp green of the far hill, a tremendous pile of brown water. With feet of fluid it strode forth, trees crashing aside like weeds, walking up the canyon floor towards her. Brooke stood with upheld arms, laughter boiling wild within her and ringing from her, power filling her. It was like being drunk and sane at the same time. Color flooded her heart and soul. She felt the river striding toward her, felt his dark secret valleys and cool glens, tasted slimy stones and the deep tang of mossy earth and the clear sweetness of springs; tasted the heart of the rock and the blood of the hills, and saw all the strange places that he passed before the Still swallowed him; felt the warmth and soft weedy taste of the lakes that drained into him and the odd tang of water flag and high grass and shingle banks, dark-blue rocks crusted white with waterlime and dry algae. Then Daslenga stood before her, and wished to know her will. She felt him deep inside her, a person of his own, asleep for ages beyond number since the Light sent away the things of darkness and of twilight. Eyes as old as the Earth stared into hers. He spoke, but his voice was like the stone-echo of distant voices that she heard in the Nanto Nenlë, so that if she understood him, it could not have been by sound. '' I am here. Tell me thy rede. '' “The Lord of Chaos stirs.” she bade him. “Return to your bed. And await our call.” '' I will be ready. '' Then the figure of water streamed through the air, spreading with a roar back into his dry bed. “Walk with me a little while, child of the streams.” said Arheled. “Look upon the tiny things of the earth you would have left, and see the wonders of the intricate fingers of the Gods. Let us find delight in the seeing, that we may put behind us the pain we have endured, and gain the strength to compass it and offer it to God. For no force is as powerful as that of suffering, which can sway even the faces of the Lords of the West.” “I will walk with you, Arheled.” Brooke said gravely. They passed down the open white road, the wet green weeds scattering dew like diamonds. Arheled passed by an odd spirelike stem, with short blueish needle-leaves rather like rosemary, which opened at the top into small hooded pealike flowers. They were a beautiful delicate yellow blending with orange, like some hard “cream” candies Brooke remembered. “Creamflower.” Arheled said fondly. “I have long forgotten what its’ name was among men.” They walked on. Wild carrot opened broad white baskets of tiny flowers—“Queen Ann’s lace”, she remembered dimly, was their other name. Then came tough-stalked plants, like ragged short vines with stemless flowers rather like a daisy but a lonely pale-blue. There were whole drifts of them, almost like snow. “Bluedrift.” he said. “Men call it flax, though the true flax is a different plant indeed. It grows beside roads, even as the maple wards roads.” “Even—''those roads?” “Yes.” Arheled replied solemnly. “Especially those.” They walked on, whether down that strange canyon or down some place removed from the world, Brooke did not know. She suspected Arheled was skipping randomly from place to place, but the things he was showing her were so fascinating that in the marvel of small detail she forgot to notice the forest around her. He showed her secret blossoms in the soggy hearts of swamps, that thrived on mud and still water and ancient tussocks built by forgotten years of sedge-roots. He took her to deep brown beaver-ponds where the pond-lilies lay like cups of white and yellow on the scumless surface, the water kept clean by the unusual rains much later into summer than they were wont. He showed her water irises, blue and deep yellow, great leaves like green swords. “Fetch me one.” he bade her. “You need not dread the water. If you do not wish to touch it, it will not touch you.” Brooke put one tentative foot on the water. It gave like rubber but bore her up. Laughing she danced out onto the pond, bent down and pulled at a pond-lily. It was harder than she expected and in the concentration of pulling at it she forgot about the water she stood on, and suddenly with a gasp plunged into deep brown wetness. It felt cool and warm and completely delicious. Surfacing she shrieked with laughter and swam to the shore, floundering through slimy shallows and splashing onto land. “Oh, that was so good.” she said. “I thought it might be.” Arheled said, a gentle smile on his powerful old face. Into deep mossy forests they wandered, where under the last laurel cups pink ladyslippers rose from two dark green leaves, and queer and varied fungi grew on trees and old logs. They appeared on strange hilltops and saw the compact beautiful plants growing out of the living stone. Into the lowlands they descended. They paused beside a blackberry bush so fruitful it would have made Ronnie go ballistic, and Brooke found herself shoveling down the berries like a bear. “Wow, I never knew raspberries were this good!” she said between berries. The odd, sweet, seedy tartness of the big cuplike berries, that formed a hollow clump of tiny gobules around the white-knobbed stem, tasted like everything fair that she had ever known. “These are not raspberries.” said Arheled. “They are blackberries.” “Nun-uh! Blackberries are those big pricker bushes with the long berries!” “You are talking about raspberry now.” “I could look up so many gardening books…!” Brooke spluttered, laughing. “But none of them reaches back as far as my memory.” said Arheled. “I watched the first berries born out of the earth. I saw them in all their varieties as they walked down the ages. I was there before their skin mutated into thorns. You can fling authorities at me as much as you desire; but I esteem your books as straw, and their words as rotten wood.” “Ronnie’s the only one up to now that I heard of giving them the reverse names.” said Brooke through a mouthful. “The blackberry has long been known by the name of its’ brother, and its’ brother by its’.” answered Arheled. “The blackberry has small greenish canes, that turn blue-lavender in winter and bear fruit in middle summer. The raspberry has great canes of green and dark red-purple, and it forms impenetrable brakes laden with great berries like small castles, sometimes as large as strawberries. Raspberry makes good jam, but blackberry better pies.” Brooke became aware of movement in the vines not far away. She stared harder. Suddenly she gasped: as if he had been invisible, Ronnie Wendy came into focus, wearing faded black pants and faded shirt of forest green. He wore a black hat over his reddish hair, and his bronze arms fit right in. He saw her at the same time and his face suddenly ignited. “Brooke!” he exclaimed, hurrying over. “Brooke, we were all worried about you. Are you all right?” “Yes, I suppose I am, now. I had a—depression—for a while, but I’m all right now.” Ronnie nodded, looking relieved. “I forgot to ask you. Is Kevin dead?” Brooke’s face pinched. “Yes.” she said shortly. “Good.” Ronnie said with a harsh smile. “Yes, yes, eternal rest grant unto him and all that, but don’t expect me not to rejoice when justice is done.” he added to Arheled, who had lifted an eyebrow. “It would be foolish to expect that of one who is not a saint.” Arheled answered mildly. “But I came to see you for another reason, Ronmond. I wish to know why you are deserting Burrville.” Ronnie threw up his hands. “The landlord’s a crook.” he said. “He served an eviction notice on me saying I hadn’t paid any rent. And I went to look up all the receipts from the money orders I paid him with, and they vanished. I can’t find them anywhere. So what can you do, really?” “Burrville must be held.” Arheled stated. “It is south that our peril lies. There are movements in the earth. Our enemies are biding time. Soon, I feel, they will emerge; but until they make their move we are left waiting.” “Well, then maybe you can do something to help out.” snapped Ronnie. “I have stuff, you know. I can’t very well live in my truck. Even if I could, where would I park it?” “Stuff is unessential, Ronnie.” said Areheled. “You may be fond of your old chair, or the movies you watch on your TV, but in the long run, do they matter?” “They matter to me, Arheled.” Ronnie said. “Humans need little things to survive, to make homes with. Useless, perhaps, to lofty beings like yourself; but we are small creatures, and small things make our lives.” To Brooke’s surprise Arheled began to chuckle. “Well spoken, Hill of the Road!” he laughed. “You have just negated five thousand years of Eastern murmers about detachment from things and the unimportance of possessions. The Christian celebrates the details of life, even when he swears a vow of poverty to give them up; the East ignores the lesser things, for the individual does not matter.” “So you’ll help me, then?” “What does it say in the Bible, something about not preparing a defense because the Spirit will tell you what to say?” “Yes, but that’s if you’re on trial for the Faith!” said Ronnie. “Not entirely.” said Arheled. “It means that sometimes you have to take a blind step, trusting in Providence to keep ground beneath your feet.” Ronnie sighed, and his shoulders drooped. “Very well.” “Goodbye, Ronnie!” Brooke called as the world suddenly began to waver around her. The next moment she was back at her house, and Arheled was nowhere to be seen. She was humming to herself as she tripped inside. Mom was doing the dishes with a dismal expression, and Brooke laughingly kissed her and pushed her out of the way and finished them. Mrs. Pond stared at her as if she was a ghost. Mr. Pond came up from the den, and Brooke went over and kissed him, too. “Thanks for the brownie, Dad.” she said. “I was too gloomy to remember.” “You’re certainly chipper.” he said, looking puzzled. “What’d you do, get anti-depressants?” “A friend gave me some therapy.” she said. “He dropped me off here. Yes, he did actually give me some antidepressant, and it should last a while. So I’m back to normal…I hope.” Roger Harding was feeling good today. Ever since that hot blonde had walked in, he’d felt on top of the world, as if he couldn’t do a thing wrong. He was pretty sure he’d had sex with her, but for some reason there was a fog in his mind about the end of her visit. He thought he remembered her body on his, but why couldn’t he be sure? You’d think an experience like that would stay with you. Anyway, the papers had gone without a hitch. She’d assured him Ronnie would have no proof of having paid rent, and she wasn’t the sort you tended to disbelieve. Soon Ronnie would be gone, and she would be living there instead. The thought made him breathe heavily. He gave a start on seeing that someone had walked into the office, and hastily composed himself. A disreputable-looking fellow, with a light plaid shirt and faded jeans, the sort of low felt hat that only old men wore shading his beard-stubbled face. “Yes, can I help you?” The stranger quietly examined the chair in which She had sat and paid him no heed. “Excuse me! I said, can I help you?” The stranger at last looked up. “No.” he said. “Wh…?” “I am in no need of help. I have come instead to help you.” He sat down at last. “You see, I have a…relative…staying in that blue house. He has some very interesting things to say about you.” “I don’t doubt.” said Roger, feeling on top of the situation again. “Quite a problem tenant. He lights fires in the backyard and holds parties at all hours. Neighbors have been complaining. And he hasn’t paid rent since he moved in.” “Indeed.” the tramp said. “Now that’s a very strange thing, because I heard from Hunter Light that the lease was paid up through October.” “Ah yes, I believe the check was held up by the bank, but I refunded him his lease. He should have received it by now.” Slowly the tramp removed an envelope from his pocket. “Ah, this one, you mean?” He tossed it into the air, and it fell down as confetti. One of the pieces landed in front of Roger, and he saw with mounting horror it was part of one of his own checks. Abruptly the strange man leaned forward. “I know what you’ve been doing. You planned to keep the lease money and collect rent as well. I have copies of Ronnie’s receipts.” He held several Western Union money order receipts under Roger’s nose. The amount was the same as the rent. Roger snatched at the receipts. The stranger caught his chain in one hand. “Dragon-spell.” he said softly. “I thought I smelled her on that chair. This explains it all. Listen to me, Harding. Burrville must be held. Ronmond stays here. This I command you, in the name of the Road: count out in cash the rent Ronnie gave you, all of it. Collect no rent off him. Do not refund the lease. Forget the dragon.” Roger nodded like a zombie. Back to Arheled